


Family Counciling

by Missy



Category: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Genre: Caretaking, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Raising" Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot proves to be a bit of a tall task for Mike.  Luckily, Joel's around to lend a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Counciling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [generalsleepy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/gifts).



> Written for my Hurricane Sandy Relief Auction for Generalsleepy, who wanted Joel/Mike slash. This is a first time I've ever written Mike/Joel slash, so I hope it rings true.

It begins the way the very best stories always begin – with a small golden robot dunking a universal remote in the hall toilet.

Crow is going through what Joel diplomatically calls ‘the terrible thousands’; that bot’s a couple of hundred years from adulthood, y’know, he explains to Mike over their afternoon coffee. He ought to finish growing up any second now, and the wry forking of his brows telegraphs to Mike his deepest wish would be for those hundred years to zoom by as quickly as humanly possible. Mike doesn’t see any humor whatsoever in the situation – but then again, it’s his universal remote. 

*** 

The two of them make a habit of meeting every few days, just to trade stories, and very occasionally to trade robots. Whenever Tom gets stuck in Anthony Newly Mode, Mike grabs him by his little inoperable hand and drags him six miles up the road to Joel’s Hot Fish stand for a tune up. Hours of tinkering over fried clam puffs ensue, with Tom making the occasional comment from his seat upon Joel’s worn workbench. 

The unspoken agreement between them, formed when Joel moved to Minneapolis to open a fresh branch of his shop, is that they would share the duties of raising the robots until they finally feel ready to embrace the world at large and move out. That time doesn’t seem to be close to arriving. 

To be fair, Gypsy doesn’t need such parenting – most CEOs of large multi-national corporations don’t – but she still calls them weekly from her New York office to ask how things are going, comes to Joel’s for each and every holiday, and stuffs their Christmas cards with gobs of cash. Joel’s pride in her is almost parental, and Mike finds himself slipping into slightly jealous tones when he talks about her. The AI is more intelligent than he is, and for the most part he’s been accepting of the fact, but she didn’t have to rub it in by getting so darn successful! 

Joel laughs when he brings it up. “Now, you leave that gal alone. She’s the finest non-bipedal We can’t all be supertemps, Mikey,” he says, laziez-fair.

“Don’t call me Mikey,” Mike complained. 

Joel smiled. And, stubbornly, kept calling him Mikey.

**** 

Summers were easier. The two of them were busiest then: The fish shop’s business boomed, and Mike had plenty of temp jobs lined up. Cash was filed away for the leaner times and spent on food, treats, incentive for the dates that never materialized, heat and electric. It was Joel who suggested that they should pool their resources; it was better to have one single pocket, a thousand times better to draw from one bank account instead of two. 

Mike didn’t agree until he had to bail Tom out of jail. 

“Why did you organize a protest again?” Mike asks, dragging him to Joel’s for a stern talking-to.

“But I was only trying to help!”

“Yes, you were a great help in turning over forty gallon drums of tuna all over the deck of the Sloop John C!” 

“But I had a good reason!” Tom insisted. 

“Well! Tell me!” Mike complained, crossing his arms over his chest.

“They were putting dolphins in the tuna!” Tom cried out. “What’s a guy supposed to do, just sit there and let ‘em hurt the poor little guys? They’re so cute and noisy and they make the funniest little sound when they jump through rings of fire…”

“…Tom,” Mike sighs, pulling open the door to Joel’s apartment, “that brand is dolphin SAFE. They’re careful not to let dolphins get into the tuna!” He swung the door open. “Hey Joel, one of our brats has a….gah!” he covered his eyes and grabbed Tom by the dome, pressing his face into his chest.

“Woah!” Joel cried out, ducking behind the wall. “Good gravy, whatt’re you doing here in the middle of the afternoon?!” 

“I was bringing Tom over so you could give him a talking to. Again, naked!”

“Naked in my own apartment! Tom Servo, what did you do?”

“Geesh,” Tom complained. “It was just one little assault on the proletariat. You guys act like I overthrew a whole government all by myself – you KNOW that’s Crow’s kinda thing!”

“You’re in big trouble, Mister! I thought I disabled your Guevara Clause!” Joel scolded. 

“Aww you guys never let me have any fun.”

“Look,” Mike said to the floor, “I’ve gotta pick crow up from his trombone lesson, then I’m working the late shift down at the Safway. Can you watch him for a few hours.” 

“No problem. You’re in for a Ward-Cleaver style talk, mister man!”

“Fine,” Mike said, retreating to the doorway. “Just put on some pants before you do it.”

“Don’t be so hasty, mister. Tom’s just a robot and,” Joel suggested his eyes twinkling ,”if I keep doing it you might have to admit you liked it a little.” 

“Just a...wait a minute!” 

But Joel had shut the apartment’s door.

**

Unity is a strange concept. It happens without either of them making a voluntary choice: one day Tom puts an overloaded cheese casserole in the oven, the next Mike and Joel are cohabiting with the robots.

Their new building was a brownstone walk-up four feet from the fish shop and twelve blocks down from the bus station. It has a busy sidewalk for Crow to heckle people, and a rooftop for Crow to sunbathe on. It’s close enough to the bus line that Mike doesn’t have to walk to work, and there’s a spare bedroom for him to practice his guitar in. “As long as I don’t have to smell like salted mackerel all day,” Mike observed, “and you don’t try to steal my ladies, I’m cool with it.”

Joel holds up both hands, “we’re cool,” he declares.

“And no flashing your area around,” he added contemptuously.

“Hey, don’t be so hasty, pal. Maybe next time,” Joel suggested, “you won’t mind seeing me without my pants on.”

Mike mock-snickered. “Joel, you’re one strange little inventor.”

There was an odd note of admiration in his voice. Joel picked up on it but said nothing. 

Mike hadn’t said no.

***

There’s no thought applied to the kiss they share in the middle of a downpour while Tom mourns the death of Tibby the Fourth and sends the little guy to his sewer-based grave.

But it’s yet another lesson they’ll never forget.

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fanfiction uses characters from _Mystery Science Theatre 3000_ , which is the property of **Best Brains Inc.** Infringement for monetary gain has not occurred, and this is a work of fanfiction intended for nonprofit use only.


End file.
